


Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: Rival

by MizJoely



Series: Twenty Sherlolly Prompts [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bat-lavril from tumlr said: Probably a stupid prompt idea but here we go: Irene and Molly “competing” over Sherlock’s heart and when Molly thinks she doesn’t stand a chance, Sherlock convinces her of the opposite. (Possibly angst with happy ending? Thanks)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: Rival

**Author's Note:**

> I tweaked the concept a bit, but I hope you still like it. And for the record I am a firm believer in happy endings in my fics. There’s enough of the other kind in real life, why add to it?

“So this is the infamous Miss Molly Hooper.”

The woman’s voice was a sultry purr with more than a hint of amusement to it. Molly paused on her way into the kitchen to deposit the groceries, turning to see who had spoken to her from the darkness of the parlor. It was no one Molly recognized, at least not by her voice, and she found herself trying to decide if she should make a run for the main entrance or just try to grab for a knife from the butcher’s block. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not a threat…at least, not to your life,” the woman said as she unfolded herself from Sherlock’s chair, rising with a sinuous grace that Molly could see – and envy – even in the dimness of the early evening.

“Right, then,” she said, backing into the kitchen and depositing the bags on the scarred table-top. “Not a threat to my life, got it. Sorry, who are you?” she asked as she flicked on the light switch, one hand reaching for her mobile…and not finding it where it should be, in her jacket pocket. No, she remembered where it was now; on the bottom of her handbag, still slung over her shoulder but hardly within reach should the intruder try anything.

Molly had backed herself against the counter, one hand casually reaching for the biggest knife, when the other woman came strolling into the room, stopping and leaning casually against the wall with a smirk on her lips that reminded Molly rather forcibly of Sherlock at his most sardonic. She was dressed in a slinky black catsuit that looked like it came from the Emma Peel collection, including the spike-heeled thigh-high boots that brought the woman up at least four inches in height. Otherwise, Molly judged, they’d be about the same height. They even had about the same build, which meant, possibly, that if it came to a fight she had a good chance of…

“I told you, Miss Hooper, I’m no danger to your life,” the woman said, interrupting Molly’s semi-hysterical thoughts, with a hint of disdain beneath the cool amusement she still projected. “Nor Sherlock’s,” she added. “I just came here to visit with an old…friend. I wasn’t aware he’d made other living arrangements since our last chat.”

Molly knew she wasn’t imagining the slight hesitation before saying ‘friend’; nor was she imagining the emphasis on the word ‘chat’, as if it held an entirely different meaning than the obvious. “Old friend,” she repeated slowly, giving herself time to think.

The woman nodded, her gaze sharp and appraising, taking in Molly’s rainbow-striped jumper and the brightly patterned blouse she wore beneath it, her rumpled khakis and sensible low-heeled shoes, her hair coming loose from its normally-neat ponytail – all of it a decided contrast to the other woman’s well-put together outfit, perfectly made-up face, and obviously expensive haircut, a sleek bob that perfectly framed her face and emphasized her razor-sharp cheekbones. Molly might have been imagining the gleam of amusement in the stranger’s eyes, but she doubted it. “Yes, an old friend,” the woman confirmed, stroking her fingertips along the doorframe. “I thought I’d stop by for…dinner.”

Dinner. The penny dropped, and Molly suddenly stopped thinking of ways to fight her way past the woman – no, make that The Woman – and instead offered her a warm smile. “Oh! You must be Irene Adler, Sherlock’s told me so much about you! Please, can I offer you a glass of wine?”

She hid a grin as she turned to the cabinet behind her, deliberately showing the other woman her back and enjoying the nonplussed look she’d received before doing so. Obviously Irene wanted to put Molly on the back foot inside her own home, but she wasn’t having any of it. “Red or white?” she asked politely as she pulled down three wine glasses. Sherlock was due home soon, unless of course he forgot they had dinner plans or was called away on a case or off in the middle of nowhere.

She slung her purse down off her shoulder and fished out her mobile, quickly shooting off a text to Sherlock, reminding him about dinner and informing him they had an unexpected – at least by Molly – guest. For all she knew Sherlock had been expecting Irene, but she doubted it. No, this visit smacked of an attempt at putting him as much on the back foot as Molly had originally been. Just another cat-and-mouse game, she thought with an inward sigh – but she had no intentions of being the mouse. Not this time.

When Irene made no response to her question, she turned and raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Do you not care for wine, Miss Adler? Would you prefer tea?”

“Red will be fine,” the other woman responded, offering Molly a smile that was about as genuine as one on a cartoon crocodile. She sauntered over to the table and pulled out a chair uninvited, draping herself over it to display her flawless figure to maximum effect as she examined one red-painted nail. “I must say, you’re not quite what I expected. Not for Sherlock,” she clarified, once again attempting to move in for the emotional kill. “I’d have thought the only woman he’d want in his life as an intimate partner would be…well, someone more like me, I suppose.” She gave a brittle laugh.

Molly gritted her teeth but continued to pour the wine, acting like a good hostess. Remembering that she was, in fact, the hostess – that this was her flat now as well as Sherlock’s – helped steady her. “Oh well, you know what they say, opposites attract,” she replied as she handed Irene her glass and offered her a tight smile. “I hope this vintage suits.”

Irene accepted the glass and took a sip. “Ah, yes, thank you so much. Sherlock always did have excellent taste in wine.”

“And so does Molly; she’s actually the one who selected that particular bottle.”

Sherlock’s voice came from the darkness of the parlor, causing Molly to start and curse a bit as she splashed some of her wine on her hand. Irene, of course, only turned smoothly to meet his gaze – which, Molly noted somewhat smugly, was openly hostile. “Woman, why are you in my flat harassing my pathologist?”

“Oh, she’s just your new flat-share?” Irene asked, rising to her feet, clearly dismissing Molly’s importance as she reached out to toy with the lapels to Sherlock’s coat. “I mistook her for your romantic partner. Sorry for the misunderstanding!” she called over her shoulder without bothering to turn her head.

“Well, since you were right the first time and you’re wrong this time, no apology needed!” Molly shot back, smirking as Sherlock shot her a surprised look. What, did he think she was going to let another woman come into their home and try to intimidate her with her posh looks and sexy clothes? If Sherlock wanted that, he would have stayed with Irene after their one-night-stand in Karachi.

Molly had the feeling Irene would be shocked if she knew that Sherlock had told anyone else about their time together, especially someone she clearly regarded as a romantic rival. Letting Irene know that Molly knew…that would be fighting dirty, and one thing Molly Hooper NEVER did was fight dirty. Unless it was literally to save her life or that of someone she loved, of course. But not just to show up a woman who had been doing her very best to show Molly up.

No matter how tempted she was to do so.

Sherlock seemed to have things well in hand; he was snapping out something about ‘my pathologist’ being an endearment, which Irene should find obvious, and demanding to know what she wanted. “You’re not just here to ask me to ‘dinner’,” he said with a dismissive toss of his head as he moved past the woman to snag a bag of crisps from one of the Tesco’s bags and rip it open. “So? What is it now? Who’s after you this time?”

In spite of Irene’s rude and obvious attempts to put Molly on the back foot, she found herself feeling somewhat sorry for the woman; clearly she’d been expecting a very different reaction from Sherlock than the one she’d gotten, and had expected Molly to just crumple like a used tissue under her snide comments. It was too bad Molly didn’t feel sorry enough to ask her to stay for dinner – no innuendo intended! – but instead busied herself putting the rest of the groceries away while Irene tried to capture Sherlock’s attention.

When it became clear even to Sherlock that Irene had come for the express purpose of reigniting their past relationship – the dear man was a deductive genius, true, but still rather clueless when it came to interpersonal interactions, Molly thought fondly as she put the lettuce in the crisper – he told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t interested, being blunt even for Sherlock. But making it crystal clear that what Miss Irene Adler wanted was never going to happen. 

She made one valiant last-ditch effort – “Darling, your little pet could join us, you know my tastes!" – but Sherlock simply walked into the front room, opened the door, and waited, one foot tapping impatiently, for Irene to get the hint.

She was gone with a last, annoyed look at Molly, not even trying to hide her disbelief that Sherlock was giving up a chance with HER to stay with – well, HER, a lab mouse he didn’t even call his girlfriend. 

As soon as he’d closed – and locked – the door behind her, Sherlock rushed back to the kitchen, where Molly had just finished putting the last of the tinned vegetables away. “Molly, I’m so sorry,” he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her fervently. “That woman – I told her that if she ever needed me, to let me know and I’d help her, but I swear I never meant…”

“Shh, it’s all right,” Molly reassured him, tiptoeing up to kiss him on the nose. "You handled her brilliantly, darling.”

Sherlock squinted at her as if unsure if she was teasing him or not. “And you’re not upset with me?” he asked, sounding very uncertain.

“Nope,” she replied, popping the final ‘p’ the way he so often did when being cheeky. Molly reached up to ruffle his hair fondly. “Sherlock, if you wanted to be with a woman like her, then you would be. You and I would just be friends, like we were for so long.” She shrugged. “And that would be that.”

“Molly Hooper, this is just one of the many, many reasons I’m so glad I got my head out of my arse where you were concerned,” Sherlock announced with a delighted grin. He swooped her up into his arms; Molly shrieked with laughter and wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her toward their bedroom. “I once told Irene that love was a chemical defect found on the losing side, but d’you know, I’m beginning to think I might have been wrong about that.”

“Fancy that,” Molly replied with a grin. They kissed, and she giggled as he kicked the bedroom door shut behind them.


End file.
